The Moth
by Fidelis Haven
Summary: Ginny's thoughts and extracts from her new diary, post-GoF. Finally updated: Portrait of the Weasley as a young Moth. Virginia has literary longings...Percy has sex. Molly has a heart attack. (We can but dream.)
1. The Undated Entry

Disclaimer: The story is mine, the characters and concept are J K Rowling's. The quote at the beginning is Isobelle Carmody's.

Author's Note: Ginny may appear a little out of character in this, I suppose. But then, this isn't supposed to be a depiction of Ginny through Harry's eyes. This, after all, is the secret diary of an older, slightly less naïve Virginia Weasley.

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The Moth

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Entry I - undated

"Sometimes I think the dark is drawn to the light as a moth to flame. Maybe it is the nature of all things to be pulled towards their opposites."

I remember reading that. Just afterwards. It's a quote, from a Muggle book. I thought I understood it then, but now I'm not so sure. I think it should be the other way round. The light is drawn to the dark. Like I was. We all have darkness in ourselves, it's not something out there, demons, ghosts, all that rubbish, that's for children. The real terror is inside and it won't go away. When you realise that, the concepts of "light" and "dark" start to change. Nothing is entirely black and white, nothing is what it seemed. Then you start to think about good and evil, and whether they really exist. And if they exist, whether they're fixed for eternity. If good can become evil, can evil become good? Is anybody wholly good, or wholly evil?

This is the kind of thing I would have talked about with him. If he was still here. 

But no – it isn't. I never thought this way until afterwards, until I realised that even the people who you think you know best of all, who you trust most of all, can be something completely different. Strangers. I was a child when I knew him, believing in absolutes. Stupid, naïve, head filled with foolish ideas about heroes and villains. 

He taught me, by example. How we delude ourselves. How we deceive ourselves. I'm free of that now. I'm not stupid little Ginny anymore. I know how to protect myself, no matter what the others think, I know how to keep myself safe from what trust can do to you. It's so simple, really. Don't trust anyone. Then nobody can hurt you.

Funny. It seems as though my life, my personality – my sense of self, so to speak – have not been shaped by me. Rather, I've been moulded by others, and what they've done to me. Tom and Harry. So alike, even they'd have to admit it, and yet so incredibly different. Light and dark. I suppose that makes me the stupid bloody moth, flying into the scorching candle. Despite the pain. But even moths can change. I'm not that girl anymore.

Tom. A boy. Raised by Muggles. Parselmouth. A wand with a phoenix feather. And Harry, raised by Muggles, a Parselmouth. A wand with a phoenix feather. They even looked somewhat alike. And their lives are irrevocably entwined, bound by hate, blood, the Killing Curse. It'd be pretty melodramatic if I could add "and me" to that last list. But I have no illusions about that.

I don't mean anything to either of them, and I never did. I was just caught in the middle. Lucius Malfoy could have given that diary to any of us. He didn't pick me out specially. It was just chance.

I was an annoyance to Harry. Ron's irritating little sister, hanging on his every word. Blushing every time he spoke, even if it wasn't to me. I look back on my first year with complete disgust. That Valentine card really was pathetic. I'd like to be able to say "I don't know what possessed me", but even the Heir of Slytherin would draw the line at singing Valentines. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How ignorant I was. I can hardly bear to think about it. In a way, it's more painful to think about that than to remember what Tom did. Maybe he did me a favour after all, giving me a wake-up call.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. I still feel some pain, actually, when I see him. Not much, and it's buried deep down, but it's definitely there. It's not the fact that he never wanted me. It's not the way he looks at Cho. I wasn't even that bothered when I ended up with Neville at the Yule Ball. It was the prestige of being with Harry Potter that I'd wanted. Just hero worship. It doesn't matter that he thinks of me purely as Little Ginny. Because I've changed, even if nobody else knows. I would tell Tom about this – but there's no point going on about that. No. I think the reason I sometimes feel so lost, for want of a better word, when I see Harry, is because he reminds me of what I'm not. What I've lost.

Innocence. You don't know you've got it until it's too late.

So really, it's just like picking a scab. I don't care about Harry as such, just what he represents. I like to remind myself what it is that I've become. His eyes, so like Tom's. His hair, so like Tom's. His scar is the worst, obviously. But each time I look at him unflinchingly, I become stronger. I will not be weak anymore.

Maybe it's not about good or evil. Maybe it's about strength, about weakness. About who has power, and who doesn't. I gave Harry power over me, but he didn't want it. Tom had power over me, and I don't know whether or not I wanted to give it to him. I'm not even sure that I care, anyway.

Power. He still has it, you know. Even if he was only a memory, preserved in a diary for fifty years. Even if he was – is Lord Voldemort. I can never think of him as that. He's just Tom. I find it so hard to equate Tom Marvolo Riddle with the man who killed Harry's parents, Cedric, all the others. He Who Must Not Be Named said I could call him Tom.

Is it wrong of me to dwell on him so much? He is supposedly pure evil. The Anti-Harry, if you like.

But when I think of him like that, I could die. It hurts more than Harry's indifference ever hurt me. I told Tom everything. All my secrets – trivial and worthless though they were. I was a proper little Gryffindor back then. But at the time, they seemed so important.

He knew me. Everything about me. There's nobody else who could ever say that. Certainly not my family. Ron still thinks of me as something he has to protect. He orders me away so I don't know what he talks about with Harry and Hermione. He thinks he knows what danger is. 

Every word I wrote to Tom, every drop of ink that soaked into the diary gave him strength. Leeching the life out of me. In a way, I suppose I really did give him my soul. Nobody else wanted it. All my stupid daydreams, childish fantasies – just a tool to let him get to Harry. I was his means to an end.

But he needed me. I don't care why. I've never been needed before. Not like that. When I wrote, when he answered – I could feel him somehow. I felt whole. We were so intimate. And even though I carry on acting like the Ginny I used to be, I know that deep down, I would do anything to get that feeling back. Whatever the price.

So you see, I'm not sure about good and evil. Not anymore.

*****


	2. July 1: Entry The First

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Entry the First: July 1st

When I got this new diary, last week actually, the very first thing I did was to make sure that it had a lock. A highly visible lock with a nice silver key – and a _lot_ of Unbreakable Charms went into the forging of that lock, the shop assistant reassured me, so nobody other than myself would ever be able to get into it. Judging by the price tag, it must have been the diary-equivalent of Gringotts, but nevertheless, I saved up for it, and I think it will be worth every Sickle. Because my privacy is essential, for a number of reasons, and I really don't want The Twins reading this. They've no concept of family loyalty at all – during Percy's last year at school, they found _his_ diary, copied out all the sections about Penelope, and pasted them all over the Gryffindor girls' toilets. I managed to peel most of them off before anyone found out – but Percy was, quite understandably, livid. Our parents never knew, because, and this may be contrary to popular belief, Percy _doesn't_ go running to them to tell tales – he never tells them anything important at all, actually – but it took a lot of hard work on my part to smooth things over. For a twelve-year-old, I think I was quite a skilful negotiator. Far more mature than The Twins, anyway – except when Harry was around. 

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Ron, of course, just didn't notice. But then, he had more pressing things on his mind.

That being said, I don't think Fred and George would find the future contents of my diary quite so suitable for decorating purposes. My musings on the subject of He Who Must Not Be Named probably wouldn't provide as much amusement as Percy's rather bad love poetry. I feel a bit horrid for saying this – but it _was_ bad. Dire, actually.

(Poor, poor Percy. Although I wouldn't describe myself as a _poet_, I do have literary longings, artistic ambitions, and –when Harry's not around – the gift of the gab – I'd _never_ have tried to rhyme "Penelope" with "envelop me". Some people shouldn't be allowed quills during History of Magic, they really shouldn't. If Professor Binns saw what Percy produced whilst he was ostensibly studying the Siberian War of Independence, he'd probably demand an exorcism.)

Apart from the lock, then, I also made sure that the diary wasn't possessed by the incarnations of Dark Lords past and present. Flourish and Blotts, the shop I got it from, isn't affiliated with the Malfoy family in any way and, as such, wasn't likely to sell me Lord Voldemort's old diaries over the counter, I'd really been thinking of my mother as I'd surreptitiously dropped a blot of ink onto one of the pages at the back. And it had stayed there, visible proof that not only was the diary free from possession, but I'd certainly have to buy it now I'd soiled it. _Anyway, better safe than sorry,_ I'd thought, gazing at the marred page regretfully. After all, I'm not the luckiest person in the world and I didn't feel the urge to converse with an extremely old aged Grindelwald, for example. I didn't speak German – but whether that was an advantage when dealing with decrepit and downtrodden Dark Lords, I didn't know.

My mother – and I can't help it, it's true – was very embarrassing. She was busy looking for birthday presents for the Boy Who Lived (And Will Not Be Named More Than Necessary), because she'd heard that his relatives only gave him bottle-tops and baked beans for Christmas, or something like that – and when she saw me place the diary on the counter, well. I could practically see smoke coming out of her ears, in fact, I was surprised that nobody else noticed her face change from shocked-and-pale to infuriated-and-bright-furnace-style-red.

"VIRGINIA WEASLEY!" she screeched – I've noticed that members of our family always _shout_ when they want to talk about things that should _not_ be talked about in public - "DIDN'T YOU LEARN ANYTHING FROM THAT FIASCO WITH THE CHAMBER?"

And on, in that vein, for about ten minutes. During which time I looked vaguely apologetic, and nodded frequently, and occasionally said "Mm." My brothers and I have this art honed almost to perfection, now, but for some reason my father's never been able to work out that the only way to avoid serious trouble is to let the anger of Molly Weasley wear itself out naturally. However, I _was_ pleased to see that the shop assistant, a smug looking young man by the interesting name of Timothy S. Hat, who'd been sniggering throughout my mother's tirade didn't get off scot-free. He visibly quailed when she turned the full force of her wrath upon him, demanding that he run a series of tests upon the diary to ascertain whether it had been tampered with, and it took the combined efforts of my father and Mr. Flourish himself to calm my mother down. It was very embarrassing, the shop was full of people – but, fortunately for all of us – no Malfoys.

Anyway. It may have been one of the more expensive diaries on the shelf but it was worth it! It was beautiful, the kind of diary your more tasteful and refined Evil Overlord would enchant not just with delight, but with positive malevolent glee. (And, although I don't want to refer to this too often, for reasons I don't need to go into – Tom himself admitted that _his_ diary had lacked a certain flair. He hadn't _paid_ for it, of course, as he later informed me, but that was beside the point. Then again, I suppose beggars can't be choosers, and neither can shoplifters.) 

Appearances are everything, you see, and to prove my point: Flora, one of my roommates, has a hideous pink fluffy thing that masquerades as a diary – she's stuck purple and orange stars all over it too – and to be brutally honest, I don't think even Voldemort would be sick enough to enchant _that_. It would take someone really sick, really twisted, really depraved –

Now there's a thought! Gilderoy Lockhart! The Heir of Grindelwald! Reaching out through Flora's diary to batter an unsuspecting world into submission through the sadistic use of most foul, most nefarious colour combinations, a smile that could outdo Brie in its Cheesiness, and a merciless army of Witchly Weekly readers!

Actually, I shouldn't be too cruel to Lockhart. They never _did_ manage to fix his memory – at least, not fully. Rita Skeeter last year – before Hermione shut her up – managed to track him down. (Not a particularly impressive feat, considering he's still in St. Mungo's, I must say.) Of course, bearing in mind Rita's penchant for factual embroidery, we're not sure how seriously to take the claims that Lockhart had developed a penchant for lipstick and lingerie, and was considering changing his name to Guinevere. (There _were_ some really lovely pictures in the Daily Prophet, though, and I will maintain until my dying day that Snape almost _laughed_ when he confiscated my copy during Potions. He tried to disguise it as a cough, but I wasn't fooled.)

My diary, then, is most sophisticated and I feel like a lady of Quality, owning such a thing. Deep crimson leather – with the Flourish and Blotts logo embossed on the spine – and subtly understated silver clasps. There are tiny roses carved into the silver of the clasps, so very small and delicate that I doubt human hands were responsible – and they're rosebuds, too, which I find quite appropriate. I am, after all, only just fifteen. And the paper! Cream, with very faint roses shaded onto the corners amidst whirlings of ivory that I can only see when I hold the book up to the light – the kind of paper, in truth, that demands a better writer than I. The best of quills, the best of inks, and the most elegant, charming handwriting. The pages should be filled with literary marvels. Lyrical explosions, daffodils and ghosts and love letters, pressed roses from a rejected lover – not my slapdash scribblings, my crossings out, my inane babble. If I were older, more experienced, more graciou_s, plus seduisante_! If, in short, I was more than just little Ginny Weasley –

But no.

It was talk like this that got me into all that trouble the first time round. 

*****


	3. July 2: Sex and Sneakiness

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July 2nd: Sex and Sneakiness

It's odd. I've just realized that my parents, despite being self-proclaimed modernists in their approach to wizard-Muggle relations, are really quite old fashioned. The fact that my mother's a housewife whilst my father's the breadwinner could perhaps be taken as proof of that, for starters – our family arrangement is _decidedly_ unfashionable by the standards of the day. We're just not rich enough for my mother to pass herself off as a Lady of Leisure – like Narcissa Malfoy can and does. (Like _I_ would if I had half the chance! I think I'm allergic to work, you see, it's terrible, really it is.)

Anyway. Although _Hermione_ didn't have an opinion on the matter when she came to stay last year – because she was still harping on about werewolf rights, and then she was busy championing the rights of house-elves (how I wish our family could afford one, as opposed to making use of Me) – she's recently developed a strong streak of feminism. Or something. Whatever it is, it's resulted in her sending _me_ the occasional owl – asking me what my plans are for when I finish school – and she's about as subtle as a brick in that it's _blindingly_ obvious she thinks I'll end up like my mother. It's because I kept making a right idiot of myself in front of Harry. Hermione, and probably half of House Gryffindor – thinks all I want from life is to be a wife and mother. Which isn't remotely true – I mean, I don't want some boring job at the Ministry, but neither do I want to spend my days cooking for a family that I can barely afford to feed. I've got too many brothers, I think, and the joys of family life can be quite overrated. If getting married means that I'll just end up as a brood mare, I think I can do without it.

I'd like to do something _interesting _– and it doesn't have to be useful, or valuable to society – I'd like to stay with Charlie and look after dragons, perhaps – if I wasn't so crap at Care of Magical Creatures that'd be more of a viable option – and I'd like to be like Bill, (or Indiana, as Hermione referred to him once) – in fact, what I'd really like is to be able to do a bit of everything. I wouldn't want to just tie myself down to one job – I'd not last a day at the Ministry. I don't know how Percy manages it – but then, he's very into order, routine. Perhaps too much so, at times.

I'm too irresponsible, as my mother likes to tell me. At great length. Whether I want her to or not.

Anyway, I've digressed again – I have a tendency to run off in several different directions at once – and what I really wanted to say was that my parents are so old-fashioned that they're making Percy's girlfriend Penelope sleep in _my_ room tonight.

We were sitting in the kitchen, my mother, Percy, Penny (who'd just arrived by Floo-powder) and myself. The Twins were off doing things that are better not thought of, Ron was in his room – undoubtedly weeping over a picture of Hermione – and my father's been working extra hours at the Ministry ever since the Triwizard Tournament. 

"Shall I put your things in Ginny's room, dear?" my mother asked blandly, as she produced a teapot from out of nowhere and began to fill several cups.

Penny gave Percy a _look_. I saw it, my mother didn't.

"Well, actually," Percy began, his hands clasped in a vaguely prayerlike attitude. "I –"

"Wonderful," my mother continued, cutting him off. "Ginny, be a dear and carry Penny's things up, will you?"

"I think Percy's trying to say something," I said sweetly, having noticed the sharp glances that the curly haired girl had been giving him. I had to wonder at my mother, though – does she _really_ think Percy's still a virgin? Sadly, I know far too much about the sex lives of my relatives than is good for me – or in Ron's case, the lack of – being the only girl in an extraordinarily large family means that my tender ears were abused from an early age. I know all about Bill and that Fleur Veela girl last year, oh yes. With the exception of Percy, who's getting it off Penelope and has been for quite some time - my brothers seem to treat me like some sort of agony aunt, asking me for advice on how to treat girls. Which is ridiculous, really, considering I'm the youngest and, like Ron, I'm still quite innocent. (Despite the efforts of Young Voldemort, I might add. Dirty French poetry _indeed_.)

My mother looked at Percy, who, despite having turned a vivid and unflattering shade of red, looked back at her determinedly. Penny was holding his hand – all in all, it really did look like they were about to announce their engagement, or the imminent arrival of a young soul into this harsh cruel world – that kind of thing. 

"The thing is, mother," Percy said, looking more and more embarrassed by the second, "Penny and I –"

"Want to sleep in the same room," Penny interrupted, obviously sick of beating around the bush. "Or rather, the same bed."

My mother's eyes went huge. "You _what_?"

I had to look away for a moment, because I was close to laughing out loud – my liking for Penny had increased dramatically, and continued to do so.

"We want to have sex," Penelope Clearwater said calmly, as if she was explaining something to a small child. "We like it, and we're rather good at it."

I did laugh, then, and tried to hide it by taking a sip of tea – failed miserably, and produced a very pathetic choking sound. A sound that gave my mother, who was gaping like a fish, time to recover her composure by pouncing on me. 

"Ginny, take Penny's things upstairs _now_," she snapped, obviously trying to get me out of the way so my little virgin self wouldn't be hopelessly corrupted by this wanton ex-Ravenclaw who was now adding ridiculous amounts of sugar to her tea.

"Where shall I put them?" I asked, all innocent-eyed and pure.

"_Your room!_" my mother shrieked, and practically manhandled me out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. 

I listened at the keyhole for a little while, laughing quietly as Penny informed my mother that she'd been sleeping with Percy for about a year and a half, had been very careful about protection, used both potions and condoms (that may have been slightly _too much information_ for me, there), and thought it was perfectly reasonable that she should expect to sleep with Percy when visiting him at home. My mother made all sorts of references to chastity and the sanctity of marriage that just went right over Penny's entirely indifferent head – then appealed to Percy's Gryffindor nobility.

"You've _dishonoured_ this girl! I hope you're happy! I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

At that, there was a spluttering sound, and I think it must have been Penelope the Fallen Woman choking on her tea. 

"Well, _yes_, actually," Percy said, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was still pink. "I'm sorry you're offended, but we're nearly in the twenty-first century – and besides, weren't you once worried that I was _gay_? Shouldn't you be _happy_ I'm of the right inclination to provide you with a grandchild?"

"Assuming _I_ want to provide one, that is," Penny remarked sourly.

(Now, nobody ever told _me_ that my parents had thought that Percy was gay. See what you learn from eavesdropping?)

"Now, Percy, your father and I never thought that you were gay – not that we wouldn't have loved and accepted you for what you were if you _had_ been gay, that is," my mother said hurriedly, ignoring Penny, "but you're not, so that's not a problem – but really, whilst you're staying in _our_ house, in such close proximity to the children –"

"Are you worried about the thinness of the walls?" Percy asked then, and I nearly _died_. He sounded so _earnest_, so eager to placate my mother. I felt really sorry for him then, as a matter of fact – if it wasn't for Penny I know that he'd never _ever_ have come out with such an announcement in the first place. He's not the most open of people and he never tells our parents anything important if he can help it. They'd never have found out about him having a girlfriend in the first place if it hadn't been for me. 

My mother, however, didn't seem particularly impressed with Percy's question – I heard her chair scrape on the floor and knew she was getting up. I had to leave the keyhole in order to avoid committing the cardinal sin – that is, getting caught – snatched Penny's bags from where they were sitting in the hall, and had scampered up to the top of the stairs by the time I heard the kitchen door open.

"_Separate rooms_," I heard my mother say then, with such grim, steely determination in her voice that I knew neither Penny nor Percy would risk arguing further.

Which is why Penny's sleeping on the camping bed in my room, tonight.

She's actually quite nice. Doesn't talk as much as Hermione, either. 

*****


End file.
